“Oh! there were hours
When I could hang forever on his eye,
And Time, who stole with silent swiftness by,
Strew’d, as he hurried on, his path with flowers.”
The relations of life abound with solemn warnings and touching
incidents. Scarcely a community exists, however small, the history of
which is not replete with scenes that, if delineated by the pen of a
master spirit, and embellished with a few of the golden rays of fancy,
would not seem fraught with romance. Nay, there is scarcely a family of
any extent that has not stories in its private chronicles, “lights and
shadows,” joys and sorrows, full of interest, and calculated, when
suitably embellished and elaborated, to “point a moral or adorn a tale.”
We “live, move and breathe” in a world of mystery. The shadows which
veil a single year—nay, a single day—from the eye of poor mortality,
may to some be charged with death and desolation, while to others they
may serve to shut out the glorious light of hope and happiness and
prosperity. The incident which to-day gladdens the heart and kindles the
expectation, may to-morrow prove but as the lightning’s flash, that
foreruns the bolt of the destroyer. Thus we know not what is best for
us, and while seeking to deserve the due of virtue and integrity, we
should check our own hearts when envying the apparent success of
another, and murmuring at what, to our imperfect vision, may appear an
unequal distribution of the blessings of Providence.
Such was the tone of reflection in which I indulged a few evenings
since, on returning from a visit to a friend—a friend whose career of
honor and ambition had, but a year or two before, excited a feeling in
the mind somewhat akin to envy. But let me not anticipate.
Laura Milnor, at the age of sixteen, was one of the loveliest of her
sex. Her beauty was girlish and buoyant, and made up of such elements as
youth and hope and innocence and joy. Her laugh thrilled upon the ear
like the clear voice of a glad child; her step was elastic and aerial,
and although as mirthful and happy as one who had never known a thought
of grief or a dream of sorrow, she was one of the most susceptible of
her sex, and was melted to tears almost as readily as she was excited to
mirth. Blue eyes, auburn hair, and a voice full of music—she was too
sensitive for the heartlessness of this world, and thus it was the fear
of those who knew her character thoroughly, and were well acquainted
with human nature in the aggregate, that she would be won too readily,
and possibly waste the sweetness of her pure and guileless heart upon an
unworthy object. Not so, however. At seventeen, she was the “bright,
particular star” of her immediate circle, with groups of admirers, of
various grades of merit and pretension, but with an avowed, preferred
and envied suitor. He had a rival, it is true, and a formidable one;
because, to a considerable fortune he added a sincerity of devotion and
an assiduity of attention that seldom fail to make an impression upon
the heart of woman, however obdurate. But the preferred suitor, Morton
Markley, was a cousin, and had been preferred, to a slight degree, from
earliest boyhood. His opportunities for pressing his suit, moreover,
were of the best kind; he was a favorite with the family generally, and
these influences were potent in determining Laura as to a choice. Nay,
the avowal of preference was scarcely determined upon by her. It was
rather made by the household circle, and regarded as a thing of course,
than elicited from the artless girl in some quiet and impassioned moment
of mutual confidence. At times, too, she felt something like a doubt—a
doubt as to the _reality_ of her attachment to her cousin. She knew—she
_felt_ that she esteemed him. He possessed many noble qualities. His
habits were of the kind that her mother approved in an especial manner.
He was not only strictly moral, but temperate from his earliest youth—a
zealot in the cause, indeed—and withal thoroughly devoted to business.
True, he was somewhat stiff and formal in his manners, possessed little
or no imagination, had no taste for poetry or pathos, and was somewhat
cold in his general character. In most of these particulars he afforded
a broad contrast to his rival, George St. Clair, a free, dashing,
thoughtless creature, all impulse and enthusiasm, with a flashing genius
and a heart of fire. But all these qualities were moderated and subdued
in the presence of Laura Milnor. She had achieved a conquest over his
heart, and he yielded to her every wish, and even often anticipated her
thoughts. But he saw her seldom, comparatively speaking, and although
the impression he made at such times was decided, it was but momentary.
Laura would occasionally hesitate, especially when she found the image
of St. Clair rising up in her memory, and she discovered herself
analysing his traits of disposition and manner, and contrasting them
with those of her cousin. But she blushed when she detected the current
of her thoughts, and turned away from the subject as from one that she
ought not to contemplate. St. Clair, moreover, was a ripe scholar for
his years, perfectly familiar with the poetry of the classics, and with
modern literature. His practice was to mark the exquisite passages in
his favorite authors, and thus, while indicating his own sentiments and
tone of mind, to appeal, as it were, to the calm and reflecting spirit
of Laura. How often did she find herself unconsciously meditating upon
these gems of thought—these eloquent and impassioned pourings out of
the souls of the gifted! How frequently did the brief but expressive
notes touch a chord in her own breast, and speak in a still, but deep
voice to her own spirit! It was on such occasions that she trembled lest
she had mistaken the feeling that animated her with regard to her
cousin. But then he was so good, so calm, so attentive! They had grown
up side by side! Her mother, her brother, her elder sister, all
respected him so much—he was so amiable, and his prospect in life was
so excellent! No—it was impossible. There could not be any mistake as
to the nature of her feelings, and she would consent and name the day.
The day _was_ named, and the bridal took place. The party was large,
gay, delightful. I shall never forget that wedding night. It was one of
the happiest of my existence—a joyous epoch in memory’s waste, which
shines with no common glory as the mind wanders back and lingers above
the regretted past. Laura, so charming before, seemed to excel all her
former brightness and beauty. Sweet seventeen—the loveliest of the
lovely, glittering in gems and satin, with her blue eyes brightened with
a double lustre by the excitement of the moment, her auburn hair waving
like a flood of moonbeams upon her white shoulders: approving relations
and friends around! That indeed seemed a happy moment—the happiest of
her life. But _was_ it so? Her affianced also looked remarkably well. He
had thrown off his gravity of manner, his dignity of deportment, and
joined the jest and laugh as if the world to him also had assumed its
sunniest smile. But I need not describe the etceteras of the wedding. At
twelve o’clock, Mr. and Mrs. Markley were taken in charge by the usual
number of select and officiating friends, and driven to their own home,
a neat but elegantly furnished establishment, No. 47 —— Row.
I was absent from the city two years. On my return, one of my first
visits was to the house of my old friend Markley. It was a delightful
evening in the month of May, 1836. The weather for the preceding week
had been wet and disagreeable, so that the change and a bright moon had
won hundreds from their dwellings to enjoy the cool evening breeze, and
gaze once more into the windows of the stores. I inquired for Mr.
Markley. He was not in. For Mrs. Markley. Her parlor door was thrown
open, and Laura stood before me—but how changed! She was paler,
thinner, and, to my eye, lovelier than ever. The delicate cast of
thought had given an intellectual aspect to her features. The ruddy
glow, the buoyant, springy motion of girlhood, were no longer there;
but, in the one case, the ripeness of the peach had been succeeded by
the soft tints of the rose, and in the other, the gazelle-like bound had
mellowed and melted into the more graceful and majestic movement of the
perfect woman. Her reception was frank and cordial. My visit seemed a
relief to her. She had “been alone for more than an hour, and had wanted
so much to take a stroll. Her spirits had been checked for the week past
by the gloomy weather, and _now_, when they seemed anxious to spring
away, as if on new-born wings, she was compelled, like a bird in a cage,
to remain within doors. Oh, these abominable meetings! This dreadful
political excitement! These detestable societies! Would you believe it,
Mr. Markley has not been home a single evening for these two weeks! He
has become a violent politician, and is a member of several literary and
philanthropic societies. These occupy four-fifths of his time, and
although he is one of the very best husbands in the world, kind, gentle
and affectionate when here, I do not see him except at meal times, three
hours in a fortnight. And here I sit, ‘moping’ away my young hours,
thinking all sorts of melancholy things, indulging sometimes in the
wildest of fancies, and not unfrequently—although I am almost ashamed
to confess it—killing the time and giving vent to my moody temper in a
fit of crying! It is of no use to complain to Morton. He is perfectly
mad upon the subject of politics, and fancies, dear soul, that he is
building up for himself an enviable reputation.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, indeed! Until the death of my first-born I bore it very well, for
the little innocent engaged my attention in a thousand ways, and the
time passed smoothly enough. But since that painful event—nearly a year
ago—the time has hung heavily indeed. I don’t know what I should do but
for our old friend St. Clair. He calls frequently, and serves no little
to chase away the gloom of these lonely hours. You remember St. Clair!”
“Certainly. I have not met him since the night of your wedding, and
then, poor fellow, he endeavored to _look_ and _act_ his best, but he
made a sorry failure of it. Has he married yet?”
“Oh, no! He tells me he will never marry, but of course the hour of
temptation and trial is yet to come. He has changed very little within
the last three years, and although not so gay and reckless as formerly,
his spirits are still excellent. Mr. Markley prizes him very highly, and
frequently consigns me to his care for a stroll, while he hurries off to
some political club or abominable meeting. Can you furnish me with any
remedy for the sort of infatuation I have described in the case of
Morton? I am really provoked at him at times, and have ventured to
remonstrate more than once, but never with a good effect either upon his
temper or his conduct. Oh! how frequently have the lines of the poet
risen to my memory during the tedious hours of waiting and of watching!
——‘May slighted woman turn,
And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off,
Bend lightly to her tendencies again?
Oh, no! by all her loveliness, by all
That makes life poetry and beauty, no!
Make her a slave; steal from her rosy cheek
By needless jealousies; let the last star
Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain;
Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all
That makes her cup a bitterness—yet give
One evidence of love, and earth has not
An emblem of devotedness like hers.
But, oh! estrange her once, it boots now how,
By wrong or silence, anything that tells
A change has come upon your tenderness—
And there is not a high thing out of heaven
Her pride o’ermastereth not.’
I ridiculed them when they were first pointed out to me by St. Clair,
but sad experience has taught me better.”
Such, in brief, was the nature of the conversation of the night. I
remained until a late hour, exceedingly anxious to see my old friend,
but the clock struck eleven, and he had not returned. Wandering
homeward, a crowd of strange thoughts pressed upon my brain. Can he love
this gentle being? I asked. And then his whole course through life came
to my recollection, and I dismissed every doubt. He does love her to the
extent of his ability. Then why neglect her? Why permit melancholy to
prey upon her gentle spirit? Why subject her to the fascinations of such
a man as St. Clair?—temptations at which both would shrink with horror
at first, but which, sooner or later, with such a being, such hearts,
such sympathy of soul and of taste, must establish a bond very like that
of love! The subject was a painful one, and I dismissed it, unwilling to
probe it to the bottom.
I visited Laura repeatedly during the subsequent six months. I became
deeply interested in her position, and more than once ventured to hint,
jestingly, to her husband the duty of watching with a vigilant eye over
so precious and delicate a flower. He appeared perfectly insensible to
all insinuations upon the subject, and with unbounded confidence in, and
as much attachment for Laura as his nature was capable of feeling, he
became more and more wedded to his dream of political ambition and
popular applause. He was a member of most of the societies that were in
any degree connected with philanthropy, and of all on the political side
to which he was attached; and thus, night after night, week after week,
and month after month, he absented himself from the society of his wife.
But why prolong the story? Hour after hour, the conviction grew stronger
in the mind of Laura that she had mistaken the sentiments of her
husband. He had, she now believed, never loved her. He had either
deceived her or been himself deceived. It was clear that he shunned her
society, and although kind and obliging, this course was attributed
rather to his tone of mind and moral principle than to a warmer and
fonder emotion of his heart. She too had been mistaken. At least she
thought so. The feeling that had induced her to become his wife was not
love; not that deep and absorbing passion, that flame and fire of the
soul, that she now could feel and appreciate. He was her cousin; she had
known him long; he had ever been kind to her; her parents had urged her
marriage, and she had been misled! But, alas! how had he deserted her!
How had she been neglected! How cold had he become! How indifferent!
What a contrast to St. Clair!—St. Clair, who even now would lay down
his life for her; who even now _sought_ her society, and was never so
happy as when basking in her smile! Her heart thrilled, her brain
throbbed, and her mind almost maddened as these wild thoughts forced
themselves upon her. I say forced themselves, for she repelled them
again and again, as fiends that would destroy her quiet, sap her
principles, and render her an object of scorn even to herself. But night
after night, and her husband was still abroad. At first she saw him
depart with pride upon her lip and anguish in her heart. Then sullenness
followed, and indifference came after. Then a feeling of pleasure
tingled in her breast as the door closed behind him, and a still
stronger sensation was experienced as the well known step of St. Clair
was heard upon the pavement below her window. But why trace the progress
of the weak, the erring human heart? Why linger over the guilt-ward
progress of that neglected wife? Why harrow the soul with her struggles
between duty on the one hand and infatuation on the other? Why point to
her fall, as, step by step, she was hurried to the brink of ruin? Why
detail the subtle sophistry of a gifted spirit—one, too, who had
persuaded himself that he really loved with a pure and undying flame?
Why recount his many appeals to fly to some other land, some distant
shore, where the scorn of the heartless world could not point at and
exult over another victim? Why picture the secret and agonizing thoughts
of the wretched beauty; the sorrow that at moments fastened upon her
soul, when some heart-touching expression fell from the lips of her
husband, and she was recalled by a look or a phrase to her early dream
of home and love and happiness?
It was late in the month of September, that, rambling down Spruce
street, my attention was attracted by an unusual stir and confusion in
the front parlor of my friend Markley’s dwelling. Lights were passing to
and fro with great rapidity, and ever and anon a shriek, as of one in
mortal agony, broke upon the night. I hurried forward, rapidly ascended
the stairs, and what a scene of horror was before me! The slight, yet
beautiful form of Laura Markley lay upon the sofa, her hair dishevelled,
her clothes in disorder, and her features pale and cold in the solemn
aspect of death! It was almost midnight; her husband had been sent for,
but had not yet arrived. Miserable being! Blind and misguided fool! He
came in a few minutes after, and for weeks and weeks was little better
than a maniac. The following brief note, the last ever penned by Laura,
told the dreadful story:
“Forgive me, Charles! forgive me, if I have wronged you! I can endure it
no longer. Night after night have you neglected me for the last two
years, until my mind, maddened by doubt, despair, and a thousand
fiendish phantoms, has ventured to pause and contemplate a deed of
guilt! There is, I verily believe, another being on the face of the
earth who loves me, and I—I—my hand trembles and my brain reels—I am
yet yours, and in honor. But I fear I could not live, be neglected, and
continue so. Forgive me, heaven!—forgive me, my husband, and pray for
me.”
* * * * *
She had taken poison!
* * * * *